


The Lady of Riverrun

by Hyrkoon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-02-29 22:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18787693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyrkoon/pseuds/Hyrkoon
Summary: For over a decade, the Riverlands have been governed by the steady hand of Lady Catelyn Tully. The death of Jon Arryn sees her become the power behind her husband, the new Hand of the King -- but can she stay true to Family, Duty, Honor in the wars to come?





	1. Appendix

**Author's Note:**

> Unless I come up with any more changes, you can assume that apart from the Tully and Stark family trees I have provided, everything else leading up to the beginning of AGOT remains functionally the same -- although some changes will spill into different regions (such as Brynden Tully not being Knight of the Bloody Gate). Naturally, a number of things may diverge over the course of the fic.
> 
> It felt odd giving the Stark children different names, but it also felt odd for them to have the same name as Tullys. So I have compromised; they will tend to have similar nicknames with the exception of Rickon/Hoster, and you can assume that functionally, they *are* the Stark children in appearance and character, just with different names and lived experiences from their upbringings.

House Tully of Riverrun

 

 **Catelyn Tully** (b. 264), Lady of Riverrun,

    * her husband, **Eddard** **Stark** (b. 263),
    * their children:
      * **Robert Tully** (b. 283), called Rob, heir to Riverrun,
      * **Sansara Tully** (b. 286), called Sansa,
      * **Arya Tully** (b. 289),
      * **Brynden Tully** (b. 290), called Bryn,
      * **Hoster Tully** (b. 295),
    * her step-ston, **Jon Snow** , her husband’s bastard, fostered at Winterfell,
    * her siblings:
      * **Lady Lysa Tully** (b. 267), m. {Lord Jon Arryn}, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East,
        * (See House Arryn),
      * { **Edmure Tully** }
    * her late father, { **Lord Hoster Tully** }, Lord of Riverrun, died at the siege of Goodbrook,
    * her late mother, { **Lady Minisa** } of House Whent, died in childbed,
    * her uncle:



 

  * ****Ser Brynden Tully****


  * her household:


  * **Maester Vyman** , counselor, tutor, and healer at Riverrun,


  * **Ser Desmond Grell** , master-at-arms,


  * **Ser Robin Ryger** , captain of the guard,


  * **Utherydes Wayn** , steward of Riverrun,


  * **Mariya Frey** , lady-in-waiting to Lady Catelyn,


  * **Lady Ravella Smallwood** , lady-in-waiting to Lady Catelyn,


  * **Carellen Smallwood** , Lady Ravella’s daughter, lady-in-waiting to Arya,


  * **Eleanor Mooton** , lady-in-waiting to Sansa,


  * **Liane Vance** , lady-in-waiting to Sansa,


  * **Bethany Blackwood** , lady-in-waiting to Sansa,


  * **Alysanne Bracken** , lady-in-waiting to Sansa,



 

    * her lords bannermen:



 

  * ****Jonos Bracken** , Lord of the Stone Hedge, **


  * **Jason Mallister** , Lord of Seagard,


  * **Walder Frey** , Lord of the Crossing,


  * **Clement Piper** , Lord of Pinkmaiden Castle,


  * **Karyl Vance** , Lord of Wayfarer’s Rest,


  * **Theomar Smallwood** , Lord of Acorn Hall,


  * **William Mooton** , Lord of Maidenpool,


  * **Shella Whent** , Lady of Harrenhal, her aunt,


  * **Tytos Blackwood** , Lord of Raventree Hall,


  * **Lymond Goodbrook** , Lord of Goodbrook, once a hostage at Riverrun,


  * **Ser Halmon Paege**.



 

 

House Stark of Winterfell

 

 **Brandon Stark** , Lord of Winterfell,

    * his late father, { **Brandon Stark** }, heir to Winterfell,
    * his widowed mother, **Barbrey** of House Ryswell,
    * his aunts, uncles, and cousins:



 

  * ****Eddard Stark** , m. Lady Catelyn Tully, Lady of Riverrun,**



 

        * (See House Tully),
        * Eddard’s bastard son, **Jon Snow** , fostered at Winterfell,
      * { **Lyanna Stark** }, betrothed to King Robert I Baratheon,



 

  * ****Benjen Stark** , **a man of the Night's Watch,


  * his late grandfather, { **Lord Rickard Stark** }, Lord of Winterfell,
  * his late grandmother, { **Lady Lyarra** } of House Stark,



 

  * his household:



**Theon Greyjoy** , heir to Pyke, ward of Lady Barbrey Stark.


	2. Catelyn I

Catelyn sought out her lord husband, and sure enough, found him in the godswood. Even at the foot of the castle heart tree, he looked half an outsider. During this autumn, the wood was a place for their children to play, mucking around in the golden leaves until the sunset. She remembered her own childhood, where she once found Lysa daring Littlefinger to climb the towering redwoods as high as he could. The redwoods towered a little less as she came to a woman grown, but it always brought her back to those blissful days of youth as she walked amidst the orange daisies, and the mushrooms that could be spotted sprouting in most of the nooks and crannies about the otherwise well-kept garden. 

To Ned, she knew, it was a hollow memory of the gods he kept. The Tullys had their own proud (small, in comparison to the other Great Houses, but still proud) history that dated back to the coming of the First Men under the Mudds, but Riverrun itself had not been built until the Andals came, the godswood always being more symbolic than sacred. The heart tree had no weirwood, and she always felt that Ned was most at peace when they made their small progresses about the Trident – she had found him at ease beneath the queer and gnarled half-dead overgrowth at Raventree Hall, and even Harrenhal, for all its ghosts, kept a weirwood where Ned could find solace.

She wondered, at times, just how much he missed the North. She had gone to Winterfell only once since her marriage, and it seemed another world entirely, beyond the Neck. Barrows dotting an empty wilderness; ancient godswoods cloaked in shadow. Lady Stark seemed a Northwoman with more ice in her than even Catelyn thought she could muster. Perhaps Ned had been warmed, however slightly, from his years in the south – but she believed that his heart might have always been suited for the Riverlands. High in her hall, she would govern the heartland of Westeros. All the fertile lands watered by the Forks of the Trident were hers, all lands south of the marshy neck, west of the Mountains of the Moon, north of the Gods Eye and east of the hills – all of it was Tully land, a home and hearth for her house that stretched for miles without end. 

But Ned still prayed earnestly to his nameless gods here, even as all of their children were anointed in the sept’s holy oils.

“Ned,” she started. Her voice was kind, and she let go of the measured gait she carried herself with among the castle. She would always be Lady of Riverrun first, but Family, Duty, Honor bound her to be steadfast in her duty as a mother and wife just as much as her duty to her king, and to her lords bannermen.

“My lady,” he responded – his voice formal enough for the Great Hall, but perhaps less so for privy conversation – mayhaps deep enough in his own form of prayer. He softened, after a moment, and asked as to the children.

“The girls are at their sewing circle with Lady Smallwood; Rob took Bryn swimming in the Fork, and Ryger sent a few guards to watch them. Hoster was learning his letters from Maester Vyman.” She wished there was more to say. Something, however small, to allay the pain yet to come. And it seemed that Ned must have taken note of the small frown that she felt lining her lips against her will.

“Cat,” he looked to her, his words begging a question untold. This was Ned’s own place; he should know of it here. “There was grievous news today, my lord. I am so sorry, my love,” she felt her own heart sink slightly – for Ned – but there was no point in putting off what spilled from her lips. “Jon Arryn is dead.” His grey visage of Stark was all the stonier – no, sadder – after she broke the news.

“Jon… is this news certain?”

“It was the king's seal, and the letter is in Robert's own hand. I saved it for you. He said Lord Arryn was taken quickly. Even Maester Pycelle was helpless, but he brought the milk of the poppy, so Jon did not linger long in pain.”

“That is some small mercy, I suppose,” he said. She could see the grief on his face, but even, he turned to her own comfort, out of duty, or love – or both. “Your sister,” he said. “And nephew. What word of them?”

“The message said only that they were well, and had returned to the Eyrie. I know not why Lysa had not come here with her boy. The Eyrie was Lord Arryn’s place, high and lonely, his memories haunting each stone.” Riverrun had its own ghosts, of course. Her mother’s chambers always seemed a sullen place after her death in childbed. The courtyard was a little less joyous, after Edmure was taken away by a fever – and for years, sitting in her high hall, she could almost feel her father’s shade lingering over her. But those ghosts had faded, over time, and it was a vibrant place, filled with her own children, and her ladies… Lysa seemed so changed last time she visited her in King’s Landing. What could have compelled Lysa not to seek her out? But Catelyn knew little of most women, who left their homes for their husbands. It seemed a sad duty to her.

“Go to her,” Ned encouraged at once. “She needs you there. Leave Brynden as castellan and take your ladies and the girls to comfort her, and let Bryn be her ward.” She gave a lopsided smile. It seemed a pleasant thought to entertain, would that work in her favour.

“I could not, even if I wished. The king rides to Riverrun,” she noted – “He must have sent a raven just before he left the city with his retainers, along with Cersei and the children.” She tsked, “I can already imagine the look on Wayn’s face when I tell him he’s as much as a fortnight to ready the castle for a royal visit.”

Ned seemed joyed at the prospect. One of the things he’d grown to like about living south was their proximity to King’s Landing. Ned was hardly a tourney man but could take his leave here and there to visit Robert and his court. It would be his first progress to Riverrun since coming into the Iron Throne, however. “Wayn will be out of drink before he knows it. Robert’s feasting habits…” He raised, and Catelyn felt a smile tugging at her lips.

“I am sending Ryger and his men as part of an honor guard to travel to the Inn at the Crossroads and escort them here. I’d send you along, but I would have all of my family in Riverrun to receive the king,” she noted.

“I’ll see Wayn has his stores in order, then,” he jested.


	3. Eddard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned considers an offer.

The Water Gate’s portcullis rose, red with rust, mud dripping from its spikes. It was quite a humble sight for the riverboats that arrived with the last of the supplies ready for Robert. Eddard simply nodded there and back, Utherydes Wayn going over the casks of mead. That would be all that Robert wanted, Ned supposed – they had been hunting readily for the past fortnight; the king and his court could hardly go without adequate game. He was always unsure of his role at Riverrun, but consulting with Cat’s household was a role he aptly filled. The last few ledgers were signed off, and Ned nodded to Wayn, returning to his quarters until the household was called to the yard some hours later.

They were all neatly lined up to receive the king. Mariya Frey and Sansa exchanged a quiet conversation on the revelations of a septa of the New Gods, while Lady Smallwood gave Arya the look she’d always give to make sure she kept her poise. Rob stood dignified, the picture of Riverrun’s heir in his reds and blues, his auburn hair glowing in the autumn son – and Bryn tried his best to emulate him. Hoster managed to stay from clinging at Cat’s skirts, or at Ned’s leg, but only just. Cat was central to it all, Ned faithfully by her side.

It was strange, Ned thought, to see the royal party cross the castle’s drawbridge. Riverrun had never been a castle built for kings. Three hundred years ago, the Tullys were overshadowed by the Blackwoods and Brackens both, by the Mallisters of Seagard and the Pipers of Pinkmaiden. It was a good castle, but ever humbler than Winterfell. The castle of his upbringing had turned to ruin here and there in the centuries, but it had some grandeur from the millennia of the Kings of Winter that had resided there, and the Kings in the North thereafter. In the deep snows, the Winter Town would grow fivefold, whereas the small holdfasts and villages were dotted about Riverrun’s landscape – and one had to cross the great moat to get to the townships, besides.

One by one, they crossed the drawbridge. Ser Jaime Lannister and the Imp, Prince Joffrey and the Hound, Ned knew their faces well from his visits to King’s Landing – if he disapproved of all of their dispositions, in his own way. Robert almost had trouble departing from his warhorse – Ned had seen first-hand how Robert seemed fatter at every great feast he’d travel to. Cersei, Myrcella, and Tommen departed from a wheelhouse parked at the other side of the moat, and crossed on foot.

Robert but let out a guffaw as soon as he and Ned locked eyes. “I’ve told you already as much, how you’ve thawed in your time in the south,” he japed – and felt Catelyn’s eyes from him. She held herself more regally than the queen, even as she craned her neck just slightly when Robert made for a brotherly embrace with Ned.

“Riverrun is yours, your grace,” Catelyn greeted the king as soon as he turned to her.

“Lady Tully,” Robert let out a chuckle as he said her title, and Catelyn appeared to start at a frown – though it faded as soon as he embraced her too.

“You’ve a private dining room? Come, let us speak of old times.” Robert turned to Ned, and then only remembered Catelyn once more, remembering at last his respect for the lady of the castle to join them. Cersei appeared displeased at her dismissal from a private meeting with Lady Tully and her husband, but said naught.

Ned joined Cat and the king for some minutes of idle conversation, speaking as to the lords of the Trident he had met along the way, the weather, and the like. It was not long before Robert grew bored in Catelyn’s presence – he was never a man to wear his emotions subtly – and soon asked if Lady Tully would accompany the queen and her children. At this point, Catelyn’s smile had turned all too false, too – no matter how much Robert wanted to meet with Ned after his time on the road, it did not beg him all but excusing Cat in her own castle.

Robert roared with laughter as soon as Cat left. “Gods be good. You know Moon Boy, Ned? You should hear his song. _The Fishwife of Riverrun_ , that’s the one. I’d weep for your wife being as demanding, but then again, I have Cersei,” he snorted.

Ned could not do more than frown. Robert was his king, but duty begged him to defend his own wife – the woman who was now his own lady liege in marriage. The arrangement was an odd one by any stretch. Ned had not expected it at all, until the dark words arrived at Winterfell that Edmure Tully had died of a fever. After months of mourning, the betrothal between Brandon and Catelyn was to be renegotiated. Lord Hoster’s daughter was his heir once more, he would see to that (any in Riverrun over twenty could recall the bitter feud between him and the Blackfish – he would not see Riverrun pass to his unwed brother upon his death, that was for sure). Equally, Lord Tully would not see the name die out after him. In light of this, and with all due respect, the lords Tully and Stark agreed that Catelyn would wed Ned, and their children would bear her name. Brandon seemed pleased enough when he learned that his betrothal had been dissolved without scandal, only he seemed eager enough to stir scandal back up again by marrying Barbrey Ryswell a good deal into her courtship by young Lord Dustin. Then came the war, and with Brandon’s only son being the sole Stark in Winterfell aside from his mother, it seemed more the likely that Winterfell may pass to the Tullys – but Young Brandon was a hale lad and would more as like marry soon.

Silent for a while, Ned at last queried, “You passed the Trident.”

“Aye,” Robert nodded, and himself grew the sombre. “Would I return to the battle. In my dreams, I slay him every night. A thousand deaths will be more than he deserves.” Ned had no response to that, so Robert sighed. “Lyanna. I should have ridden on to Winterfell, to see her grave.”

For all Robert mourned her, Ned’s heart was heavier. _Promise me, Ned_. Those words echoed in his head at every waking hour, in every dream of his. He wished, all the time, that he’d be able be with the boy. In his heart of hearts, he knew that he had a duty to another lady – to Cat – and while he would lie to her (he had no choice), his duty to Lyanna would not go as far as raising a bastard in her own home. Barbrey knew him as her nephew – and he was – and in his few journeys to Winterfell, he had never been ill-treated. He lived the life of a bastard, of course, but also that of a ward and a foster child. It was not Barbrey’s shame to raise her goodbrother’s bastard. No, he had placed that on Cat. But try as she might to question the boy’s mother, those years ago, he found that he was still more a Stark of Winterfell than a Tully of Riverrun. “He is of my blood,” he had found himself telling her, sharply.

He looked back to Robert. As much as he had visited his king, he found that their friendship became more of a shell of what it had been. Robert had changed too much – and Ned could never be the same either, not truly, with the secrets he bore. Both at least had the good grace to drop Lyanna’s name.

“Tell me of Jon,” Ned asked of Robert.

Robert shook his head. “I have never seen a man sicken so quickly. We gave a tourney on my son's name day. If you had seen Jon then, you would have sworn he would live forever. A fortnight later he was dead. The sickness was like a fire in his gut. It burned right through him. I loved that old man,” he noted, head sinking just slightly.

"We both did." Ned paused a moment. “Catelyn fears for her sister. How does Lysa bear her grief?”

Robert's mouth gave a bitter twist. “Not well, in truth,” he admitted. "I think losing Jon has driven the woman mad, Ned. She has taken the boy back to the Eyrie. Against my wishes. I had hoped to foster him with Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. Jon’s brother is long dead; he had no other sons. Was I supposed to leave him to be raised by women?”

_As my children have been_ , he felt himself noting, but did not open his mouth. Robert thought Ned all but Lord of Riverrun, Cat’s station nothing short of japery. Still, he found himself agreeing that the boy needed a father about him. He had seen first-hand how Lysa had suffered from losing children, as blood, or blue of face in the birthing bed. The child Lord of the Eyrie was all she had in her life, but the woman had enough sense not to trust a boy into Tywin Lannister’s hands. The stain of murder would always remain on the lord’s soul. “The wife has lost the husband,” he said carefully. “Perhaps the mother feared to lose the son.” He’d seen first-hand how pallid the boy was, afflicted by that awful shaking sickness.

"Six, and sickly, and Lord of the Eyrie, gods have mercy," the king swore. "Lord Tywin had never taken a ward before. Lysa ought to have been honored. The Lannisters are a great and noble House. She refused to even hear of it. Then she left in the dead of night, without so much as a by-your-leave. Cersei was furious." He sighed deeply. "The boy is my namesake, did you know that? Robert Arryn. I am sworn to protect him. How can I do that if his mother steals him away?"

“As is my son,” Ned reminded the king. “He would do well in these walls, with his cousins. His mother would surely desire to be with her sister, in her grief,” he noted. “Catelyn wondered herself why Lysa did not come to Riverrun at once.”

"A generous offer, my friend," the king said, "but too late. Lord Tywin has already given his consent. Fostering the boy elsewhere would be a grievous affront to him."

“I am sure Cat cares more for her sister and nephew than affronts to Lord Lannister,” Ned declared.

“That’s your Fishwife, through and through,” Robert snorted. “She and Cersei will have to feast tonight; mayhap she’ll learn however much land she thinks to rule, her concerns will be less than who the king fucks,” the king guffawed. “Ah, Ned, but I came to Riverrun for a reason.”

“For my company in the grief of our foster father, I am sure,” Ned raised, though he suspected more.

“Aye. In the wake of his death, I need men like him about me. To serve me ably.”

“His son…” Ned began.

"His son will succeed to the Eyrie and all its incomes," Robert said brusquely. "No more."

That took Ned by surprise. He stopped, startled, and turned to look at his king. The words came unbidden. "The Arryns have always been Wardens of the East. The title goes with the domain. It has been but a ceremonial title before; Ronnel Arryn was but a boy when named the very first Warden, Jeyne Arryn was a girl-child…” He found himself repeating a history instilled in him by both Jon, and by Cat, inspired by the great ladies of yore.

The king was displeased by that. “And if war comes to the realm?”

“In peace time, there is nothing to be lost. In war, Lysa might appoint a Lord Protector for that,” he felt himself raising further – “You owe Jon as much as letting his boy keep such an honor.”

The king was not pleased. He took his arm from around Ned's shoulders. "Jon's service was the duty he owed his liege lord. I am not ungrateful, Ned. You of all men ought to know that. But the son is not the father. A mere boy cannot hold the east." Then his tone softened. "Enough of this. There is a more important office to discuss, and I would not argue with you." Robert grasped Ned by the elbow. "I have need of you, Ned."

Robert scarcely seemed to hear him. "Those years we spent in the Eyrie . . . gods, those were good years. I want you at my side again, Ned. Don’t hole yourself up here with your Fishwife; come to build my realm. Eddard Stark, I would name you Hand of the King.”

“I am not worthy of the honor,” Ned raised, but Robert did not back down.

"If I wanted to honor you, I’d let you retire. You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter, though she might bear Cat’s name. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done."

This offer did surprise him. "Sansa is only eleven."

Robert waved an impatient hand. "Old enough for betrothal. The marriage can wait a few years." The king smiled. "Now stand up and say yes, curse you."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace," Ned answered. He hesitated. "These honors are all so unexpected. May I have some time to consider? I cannot accept without informing my lady. . . "

“Yes, of course, tell her, and bring her to the Keep if you must – but don’t let her tread over you. I am not a patient man, and I’ll not have my Hand be run by a woman.”


	4. Cersei I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei is not impressed with the Tully retinue.

Riverrun’s Great Hall was a stout little thing that spoke to the Tully’s small position among the great houses. The very room almost choked Cersei, with whatever little fare the Riverlanders saw fit to call a largesse. Looking to the platters that the servants had on arm, it seemed that _salmon_ was all that Lady Tully and her lord thought appropriate to serve the king and queen.

Eddard Stark grasped at her arm, helping Cersei to the dais. Even as the queen flashed a smile to the Rivermen, she found it hard to stifle a laugh. _The man is not even lord of his wife’s castle, yet Robert has him escort a queen._

Cersei found her way onto the dais, and easily grabbed at the stem of a poorly-made silver goblet. Drinking to clear her head, she found that Robert and Lady Tully had made to the raised platform, with Lady Catelyn having to help Robert more than he helped her. _The woman might think herself mistress of a sliver of the realm, but she need not become the king’s own chaperone_. But he did deserve it, after all. He had gone to wench for the afternoon, after all too readily excusing her in the Tully courtyard.

Afterwards came forward two women. The first was not entirely as plain as most Riverwomen, and at the very least made the effort to appear presentable in a black samite gown accented with white. When she greeted the queen, her voice held the almost gruff quality of the Stormlander accent. The second had too prominent a brow, was too wide of face – she could politely be called handsome, but appeared unsurprisingly unpresentable in drab brown linens, with an opaque veil that did not even bother to hide the streaks of grey in the woman’s hair.

The former took her place beside the Lady Tully, whereas the latter somehow thought to approach Cersei directly. “Your grace.” The woman did not even curtsy, revealing herself to be carrying your tome. “My good-sister Genna had the sharp mind to grace me with a copy of one of Gyldayn’s histories for the name-day after I wed my husband. I would gift you his latest work, in my appreciation for the goodwill of your house.”

“Thank you,” Cersei managed, trying not to sneer. “Senelle, would you take my lady’s tome to my quarters.” If the woman was well read enough, she no doubt had enough wit to know that Tyrion would have appreciated such a trinket. _Most likely it is an affront to the house_ , she thought, displeased that she had been reminded of the aunt married to a _younger son_ of Frey. She knew it had been perhaps Grandfather’s greatest blunder, but another one that Father had gone above and beyond in amending by having Cersei be queen.

Senelle approached from standing at the side to the room’s side and departed swiftly. Cersei had not brought her own ladies; of course, Jocelyn was the only lady she had, left behind to ‘manage her household’ in the Red Keep. She had not been the only one to offer, naturally. Each time a minor courtier had got promoted, his wife would beg to attend Cersei, but she rebuffed even the westermen. Jocelyn at least followed the general trend of the Swyfts in being almost dim enough to be a lackwit, and thus having little reason to suspect anything with Jaime. For all she hated the provincial tours to the backwater parts of the realm, a lesser court was a blessing for discretion. She thought of Greenshit, where she and Jaime made Joff on the dingy isle that Robert’s grandfather ruled.

Then came Lady Tully’s children. One was close in age to Tommen; the other the Tully woman must have whelped since last time she came to King’s Landing. He had been at his mother’s skirts in the courtyard and struggled to even get to the dais without tripping over. The heir to Riverrun was next. Robert Tully was not quite yet a knight, but though he towered over Myrcella, her rich cloth-of-gold gown outshone the Tully heir’s drab doublet and mud-red hose. A few noble companions joined him as he take his spot, and then…

Then was Joff, with the Tully girl on his arm. Tommen had already taken his place with the dark-haired girl, but the queen’s gaze lingered on the girl as she saw to introduce her various women of the petty minor houses of the Trident.

She had learned of Robert’s abrupt arrangement with the Tullys only hours ago, and one thing had been racing through her mind. _Queen shall you be, until there comes another…_ the girl was younger, and perhaps almost beautiful. Not more so, but she was a child. “Lady Sansara. How many years are you now, my sweet girl?” She felt herself asking.

“One-and-ten, your grace.” The girl managed not to blush too hard in the presence of royals, and Cersei nodded to manage sweetly.

“Have you bled yet,” she asked. The more time to avert the woman’s words, the better.

The girl did blush then. “No,” she responded, and Cersei felt the disapproving gaze of the presumptive lady as soon as she allowed the girl to take her seat.

She would find some means to end the betrothal. She would marry Joff to the ugliest spinster in the realm if she had to. But for now, she managed to put the thought aside. The girl could not be _that_ beautiful, besides.

No, it was Jaime who caught her eye now. He was the picture of perfection, golden locks spilling easily to his shoulders. Crimson silk of YiTish origin hugged his stature; a satin cloak making him even more dashing. She could not smile too hard; though, Tyrion was also there. She dedicated the rest of her energy to keeping a lid on her temper as he japed with the woman in black and white by Lady Tully’s side.

Lastly came the Riverlords who had come to the castle to pay homage to the king and queen, a few with various trinkets that Cersei received graciously. She waved them past, and the first course was nearly done by its end. She did not even bother touching the smoked fish and reached for the chalice once more. She drank throughout the meal, through the elk and boar and else, until at the very least she could leave the godforsaken dais. Robert had already gone below the salt, fondling at some fat Riverwoman. She did not glower.

She did not need to, for she cared as much for Robert as he cared for her. Senelle had gone to ready her chambers, and Jaime offered to escort his queen there. Out of his foolhardiness, he had almost leaned in too hard - before that wretched Frey woman managed to find them in the hall. “This was Lady Minisa’s private chamber before she died,” she raised, “Lady Catelyn is very gracious to open the doors to you.” She could not even feign caring at this point. “Would you like me to –“

“No.” She had no patience for that woman, and none for Jaime. She was far too tired tonight, and practically threw her skirts at Dorcas as she changed into her shift. Old Lady Tully’s featherbed was hardly relaxing compared to the Queen’s Suite, but after weeks of inns and minor holdfasts it was a luxury.

In her dreams, she sat the Iron Throne, blood marring her skirts and dripping down her pale white skin. An auburn-haired woman laughed, dancing on golden shrouds, and something choked the life from her.


End file.
